The Thin Steel Line
by uncommoner
Summary: What if?


**Dressing For The Event**

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The cellphone vibrated gently and skeetered across the bedside table. It was 0400 hours, time to get ready for early shift. She did not need the alarm call, but the rest of the shift used them. She would too, the better to fit in. The department used a central call service, which alerted the entire scheduled group for events. A computer dialled all the cell phones in the group. When one did not answer or press the correct sequence of numbers within 90 seconds, the entire group would be informed. Large city policing is not a risk-free endeavour, best to be part of a team. The much discussed and abused, "Blue Wall," looked different from the inside.

The young woman was already wide awake and studying her computer intently, she glanced across at the alarm and decided it required no immediate action. The ghostly glow from the computer screen reflected blue on her face as the Sun attempted to rise from the depths of its slumber outside in the still quiet. At 45 seconds she reached across with the loose-limbed grace of a dancer, picked up the phone and disengaged the alarm by depressing today's sequence code. The laptop lid closed with a gentle click. Not firmly, nor too light. Just right to engage its locking mechanism.

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The thirteen weeks of Police Academy had a one week basic drivers course. Her driving instructor had been struck by what he called her, "car sympathy." The last day of the course included an hour on the skid-pan and what every recruit hated, the, "Final Drive." Hers was a full five minutes faster than ever before, yet to the instructor had felt like a soft ride in a limo. He said, "You seem in perfect empathy with the car and its systems. I've never seen anything like it."

He looked at her a long time, the other three recruits in the back similarly stunned, but shocked into silence by the display of car control and outrageous pace evidenced by the unforgiving eye of the clock.

"How did you do that, junior?"

"I just got lucky I guess."

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Her face crinkled into a delighted smile at the thought. She unwound from her seat and headed for the shower.

She loved to shower. The muck of inside was washed away with the muck on her the outside. She washed with a neutral, aloe-based fluid whose perfume would not linger on her skin. For a few moments toward the end of each shower, after she was all rinsed off, she stood motionless as the water cascaded over her. It was not necessary, and unrequired for her mission. It was probably a terrible waste of valuable renewable resources.

"Ah **** the tree huggers," she mentally whispered. There weren't many luxuries she permitted herself, this was one she would not limit.

She towelled dry, then applied a very light jojoba oil scented with 15% rose otto essence over her entire body. That would work its way into her pores through the course of the day and help keep her skin hydrated. The sensuous massage to her skin was her mental closing off the night and her shower, and a small psychological wall she built for herself between the peace of her room and the chaos of the working day to come.

With a decisive nod to herself she stopped her reverie and reached for the black cotton panties that were the first item of clothing to touch her skin. Her feet stepped gracefully in and she drew them gently up her legs till they fit snug, not tight, around her hips. She ran her fingers round the edges to ensure a proper fit.

The panties were boy shorts, a bit like cycling shorts. They kept her warm, and she always felt the cold. They were more comfortable underneath police pants than bikini panties, and hid any VPL lines folks at the station and courageous drunks were just itching to point out.

Her preference was for well-cut, top quality clothing that lasted. If it was to touch or encase intimate parts of her body it would be the best money could buy. If she were in some evil wreck or killed, the panties would be just normal, and clean as they should be.

As every daughter is instructed by her mother.

This was to be her first day in uniform, on the streets. Like everyone, she wanted to do well and excel when possible but she was as the others would find later, preturnaturally calm. She didn't do nerves, considering them a waste of valuable brain power. She was anxious to get underway.

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She had passed the induction education, law, culture and history exams with flying colours. The physicals, the same. Although slightly built, wiry and rangy, there was an element of steel about her. Not someone to trifle with, as several of her fellow students discovered. At 5'7" most of the other recruits were a good head taller than her. There had been some considerable annoyance that she had been accepted for the department without having to endure the full 13 weeks of police academy. Every recruit had to complete the full week of CP, officer safety and hand to hand combat instruction. So, she was scheduled to get some extra learning from the other recruits in that week.

Most male cops imagined that during the violent stuff, with their height and size advantage, they would assert a physical superiority without difficulty. During the self-defence, not one had managed to lay a glove on her.

As well constructed as she was and pleasing to the eye, many had tried. Not just the males.

At the range, her shooting was competition standard. It was hard for her to shoot that badly. It was necessary, so she did. At her first shoot, she put a full magazine straight through the same hole in the centre of the target. It had caused a fuss. Eventually, everyone had agreed she had fluked a 10 with one bullet and missed entirely with the other 14.

So be it. She didn't care for fuss. She smiled and reloaded.

They had a little further trouble when it came to shooting targets rather than bullseyes. During the mornings self-defence the men had been giving her a hard time.

It irritated her that she could not deal with them in a manner more suitable to the offence. With a gun in her hand, her temper rose from its tamped-down position.

The situation had been further cranked up when the two recruits either side of her recalled her fluke and 14 misses from the previous shoot and loudly exclaimed how, "Bitches cain't shoot." Laughing like hoot owls until the young woman's stare found them and would not leave or blink.

Men needed to explain competent femininity away.

It was of no importance in her scheme of things. When time came to shoot would be time enough.

At this point of the range practice, live size posters of villains in various positions robbing banks, or holding hostage victims were held. On each poster, a thin shape is etched out to indicate the target. The so called, K5 spot. The most likely place where a striking shot would, "stop," a miscreant. These were all centre body mass, and with clever artwork, shading and placement of objects they could be made extremely difficult to hit.

Few officers managed more than 30% K5, clean shot on a target unknown to them. Once the image is known, and the target stored away in muscle and brain memory, it became easier to hit the K5. Although never easy, and more difficult still when the target is moving.

The young woman struck every single target right smack dab in the centre of K5. A killing shot. Once again the second shot of the double tap had gone through the same hole in the poster as the previous shot. This time there were 7 targets, so there was no talk of flaky shooting.

After her second run, where she repeated the feat with differing targets, there was complete quiet. Getting a double tap in a K5 was good shooting. Getting a double tap right through the same mark, while moving quickly through a badly lit warehouse was something to be discussed. Competent, skilled women are a problem for a lot of males. Bitches can't shoot, right? So they quickly found something else to while away the time while they were letting that little demonstration sink in.

She brought her attention back to the room and bent down for the bra that lay atop the rest of her clothing on the bed. Her 32b's awaited entrapment. A plain black sports bra with no fastenings, it went on over her head. It fitted snug around her chest, holding her breasts close. Wobble and bounce reduced the authority of the uniform was the "girl-talk" advice every recruit got.

A woman in uniform was defined cat-nip. No sense in encouraging the undisciplined. Her fingers checked out the straps and banding for correct fit.

She reached her right hand under her left breast, and snuggled it in to fit correctly. She had the thought momentarily that one breast was larger than the other. Nonsense, of course.

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There had been one incident with a man who had gotten drunk on the second night and attempted to gain access to her room while she was asleep.

She refused admission, to no avail. Eventually, the line-backer had beaten down the door and attempted to get close up and personal. She had evaded his clutches and in her nightwear, had run screaming out into the corridor of the police barracks, where the man had been brought down by his fellows and arrested.

She had refused, point blank to answer the questions from the professional standards department the following day. Asserting merely that she had visited the bathroom while the whole affair had taken place and had missed it entirely. She saw, and heard not a lot, and wasn't sure about the rest. The Thin Blue Wall.

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Next, the light silk vest that would help to ease the chafing of the tactical safety vest regulations insisted she had to wear. It was unbearably uncomfortable and made her feel like the Michelin man. She hated it, but there was no escape from regulations. The Thick Blue Wall

Next, her long cotton dress socks, black, rolled up to her knees.

Now for the pants. New recruits put the vest on first, but only once. You put the vest on first, the pants are impossible and the boots even worse. The pants slid on and tightened the light belt around her waist and clipped it into place. The inner belt was made of webbing and had a snap-in closer that was very light and comfortable, much more so than the horrible, duty belt.

Her boots followed, full duty fire-proof and waterproof with gore tex lining and weighing 6 lbs each. Faugh, she laced them tight and added her back-up gun. The American Arms .380 magnum. A tiny little thing with a kick like a mule and a bark every bit as fierce as a Rotweiller. In the hands of an good shot, as effective a knock-down as a .45.

The duty belt is a 2" inch wide leather heft with double teeth on the fastenings. On it she would hang the 1001 items the Department required her to carry. Starting of course with her gun and holster. The Heckler and Koch .40 with a 15 round 180 grain P+P ammunition would handle any misbehaviour expected. She did not expect to have to use the expandable baton, or the defensive spray. The tickets, every cop hated, were a necessity.

Her refusal to rat on another officer for what most regarded as hi-jinks bought her as many drinks as she could ever manage at the bar for as long as she wanted, and any doubts about her loyalties quelled.

She remained friendly and calm, and took no nonsense from anyone. She was regarded as a glacially tough miss goody-two-shoes. Eventually, they left her alone. She had patience, and would endure. John Connor had asked her to do this for a year, so she would. Apparently, it would help eventually with the resistance effort.

Her hearing picked up the sussurous of tyres pulling to a quiet stop outside. It was exactly 0459:45. She smiled to herself, she preferred precision in all things. It started with good time-keeping.

Officer Catherine Weaver strode out to meet her first day as a badged, warranted cop.

"Morning Officer Dudley. She smiled.

The thick and thin blue line were together.

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End file.
